


Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

by pohjanneito



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Valhalla
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Established Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, they're a little melodramatic but have you met these two?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27783139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pohjanneito/pseuds/pohjanneito
Summary: Eivor and Sigurd say their goodbyes on the night before Sigurd's big journey to the eastern lands.
Relationships: Eivor/Sigurd Styrbjornson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 117





	Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I had an urge to write about these two throughout the game and now that I've finally finished it, here we are :) The fic is set two years before the main story of the game and the only spoilers are for the opening scene. This hasn't been beta read, because I don't have any friends in this fandom, so apologies for any mistakes and typos.
> 
> Comments are very welcome, but no hate please <3

The feast was beginning to wind down as people passed out around the longhouse, the deep timbre of the tagelharpa growing quiet for the night. Sigurd wasn’t deep in his cups, but his head was pleasantly light from Tekla’s brew and his heart drummed a restless beat in anticipation of his coming journey.

Their small clan had gathered to celebrate his departure and Sigurd knew he would miss every well-loved face in the room. He’d had his share of glory on their own shores, but his status as prince and future king of Rygjafylke demanded greater victories than the age-old skirmishes with Kjotve and his clansmen.

The mind of their seer seemed to fade with each passing season, but she could still mix a brew to send Sigurd’s hugr beyond the veil, and the visions he was gifted with promised him a fabulous fate beyond the borders of his birth land.

Sigurd smiled to himself and raised his drinking horn to his lips as Dag entertained him with a tale from their youth.

“By Odin, that bear was dead before it even knew what hit it!” Dag half-shouted, half-spat, foamy ale spilling down his chin as he beat his fist against the table and sent a plateful of fish scraps flying through the air.

“Ja, because it was my swift axe that slew it,” Sigurd said, smirking at Dag over the rim of his horn.

More food toppled off the table as Dag brandished an invisible weapon in his meaty hand and swung his arm left and right. “Nonsense!  _ My shield _ shattered the beast’s thick skull like a block of drift ice!”

“If you say so, you drunken gloryhound.”

In truth, Sigurd had no memory of the monstrous bear or his friend’s alleged heroics, for their shared hunting trips had grown sparse after Eivor’s skill with a bow earned him a permanent place at Sigurd’s side.

He drained his horn to its last, malty drop and gave Dag’s broad shoulder a pat, bidding him a good night. “Go easy on the ale, my friend, lest you pass out in pig shit again.”

“That was one time...” Dag slurred, already stumbling towards the nearest vat of ale for a refill.

The flames in the firepit had died down to smoldering embers and the candles in the sconces were almost down to their wicks as the hour of the wolf drew closer. Their king had withdrawn to his chambers earlier in the evening and Sigurd approached the high seat that would one day be his. He stroked his fingers along the ornamental carvings on the backrest and let his eyes travel across the smoky hall.

He would not hesitate and cower from battle like his father whose swordhand now favored a drinking horn while his weapons and armor gathered dust in his private vault. No skald would sing songs of Styrbjorn king, but the honor and glory Sigurd was destined for with Eivor by his side would be heard of all the way in Valhalla.

His brother had disappeared during their father’s big speech about Sigurd’s coming conquests, and his absence from Sigurd’s side left him feeling like a scabbard without its blade, empty and incomplete. He knew his wife waited for him in their bedchamber, still more out of duty than love, but there was only one person whose company Sigurd longed for on his final night in Fornburg.

Eivor’s private chamber at the back of the longhouse was empty, the furs on his bed untouched, but Sigurd knew his little raven inside out. He made his way to the narrow loft high above the hall and found Eivor sprawled on a pile of linens, his pale eyes fixed on a frost-stained window.

“There you are, Brother.”

The air in the loft was stifling from the fires below and the woodsmoke that floated around the rafters stung Sigurd’s nostrils like Svala’s strongest herbs.

“Gods, this place is as hot as Múspellsheimr.” Sigurd tugged on the high collar of his tunic, the furs around his shoulders making him feel nigh feverish. “Why do you sulk here, in the dark, while the rest of us make merry downstairs?”

“I do not sulk,” Eivor grumbled, refusing to meet Sigurd’s eyes.

Sigurd’s mouth curled up, but he held his tongue as he made his way to his brother’s side. It had been years since he’d followed Eivor to the loft, for the space was not built for his considerable height, but the sight of his brother, huddled in the shadows, was a familiar one.

He’d grown into a battle-hardened drengr, but Sigurd could still see the boy Eivor had been when he first joined their family. Freshly orphaned and full of sorrow, he’d hidden in the loft for weeks after the night of bloodshed in Heillboer, the wolf bite on his neck barely healed. The thralls had kept him fed, but only Sigurd had been welcome by his side in those days of mourning.

“The last time I was up here, this cursed beam of wood nearly split my head in half,” Sigurd said, knocking his knuckles against the rafter above them.

Eivor exhaled a quiet huff of laughter. “The goose egg on your forehead was large enough to put Thor’s goats to shame.” The smile on his lips fell away before the words were out of his mouth and the look in his eyes grew dark as he fell back into his sullen silence.

Sigurd sat down across from Eivor and watched his brother with knowing eyes. He could guess the reason behind his sudden departure from the feast, but the troubled thoughts had to be voiced before Sigurd could try and mend them.

“Eivor,” Sigurd said softly, reaching out to settle his palm on his brother’s knee. “Tonight was meant to be a celebration, but here you sit and scowl like Garmr on Hel’s door. Tell me, what is the cause of this storm I see in your eyes?”

Eivor exhaled a heavy sigh, finally dragging his gaze away from the window to meet Sigurd’s eyes. “You leave at dawn.”

Sigurd nodded, brushing his fingers against the coarse wool of Eivor’s winter breeches. “I do.”

“Do not misunderstand me, Brother, for I know how much this journey means to you, and I am excited for you.”

“But?” Sigurd pressed, for he knew there was ‘a but’ in Eivor’s tone.

“But I do not understand why I cannot come with you!” The words burst out of Eivor’s mouth in one frustrated breath, his eyes pleading as he stared at Sigurd in the cold moonlight. “We always talked about sailing the winding waters of Volga and seeing the great city of Miklagard  _ together _ .”

Sigurd’s mouth pulled into a wan smile. He shifted a little closer and reached up to tug on the messily woven braid in Eivor’s hair. “I know we did, Little Raven, and I would gladly have you by my side, but our king needs you here.” Sigurd cupped his brother’s bristled cheek and traced the deep groove of his scar with his thumb. “As do Randvi and the rest of our Raven Clan. They all need you to look after them in my absence.”

“And what about you?” Eivor pressed his palm against Sigurd’s knuckles and leaned into his touch, a gesture of gentle vulnerability gifted to none but Sigurd. “Who will look after  _ you _ , Brother?”

Sigurd’s chest ached at the question and the open worry swimming in Eivor’s eyes. Were he still a foolish youth, he would scoff at the mere notion of needing protection, especially from a brother five winters younger than him. But he was nearing his third decade now and the many battle scars that marred the tattooed skin under his tunic had taught him some humility.

Sigurd pressed his forehead against Eivor’s and settled his palm against his neck. “I am no spring chicken, Eivor, and I will have an entire longboat full of Norway’s most fearsome víkingar at my command. There is no need for you to fret.”

Eivor’s breaths ghosted against Sigurd’s lips, warm and a little sour from ale. “I will still miss you, terribly,” he whispered, his voice breaking at the last syllable.

They’d been apart over the years, but Sigurd’s own heart was heavy with a deep longing before his journey had even begun and his gut churned with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be at Eivor’s side as the war with Kjotve’s clan raged on.

His brother had always had the gentle soul of a poet, but even Sigurd had to admit that Eivor had begun to grow reckless in his quest for vengeance. He had never disobeyed a direct order from Styrbjorn, but Sigurd had a feeling that even a stern word from their father wouldn’t stay Eivor’s axe-hand if he was presented with the opportunity to separate Kjotve’s head from his shoulders. 

He ran his fingers through Eivor’s hair, thick and coarse from salty sea air. The old scar on his neck still held the jagged shape of sharp teeth, and Sigurd’s breath caught in his throat as he recalled the warmth of Eivor’s blood as it bubbled through his frost-bitten fingers, the air ringing with wolf howls and distant death screams of their people.

He’d invoked the gods with their most flattering kennings, pleading for Eivor’s life as he carried his bleeding body in his arms through the frozen woods, and one of them must have heard him, because his brother was still at his side over a decade later.

Eivor clasped his fingers around Sigurd’s arm and pulled him into the cradle of his thighs with such desperation that Sigurd, for the first time, wondered if he’d be able to set foot in his longboat and sail away come morning.

“Sigurd, Brother, I…”

“I know,” Sigurd murmured, and the kiss he pressed to Eivor’s lips wasn’t their first nor would it be their last.

He was expected to spend his nights in his marriage bed, not in the embrace of a man who was his brother in all but blood, but Sigurd gave no protest as Eivor began to undo the fastenings on his jerkin.

They shed the rest of their clothes in a rush of lust that rivaled the eagerness of their younger days, the sight and feel of Eivor’s tattooed body still more familiar to Sigurd than the lovely curves of his wife. Eivor clung to him like a drowning man clings to flotsam as they settled on the soft linens, his muffled sighs and pleas for  _ closer _ and  _ more  _ ringing inside Sigurd’s head as the skin on his back stung with shallow welts from his brother’s blunt nails.

“Words cannot describe how much I have missed this.” The confession rolled from Sigurd’s tongue as he thrust between Eivor’s thighs, their touches intimate for the first time since his union with Randvi had forced them to cool the fires of their illicit bond. He was no poet like Eivor, but he hoped his brother felt the depth of his love in the ale-sweet kisses he pressed to Eivor’s lips.

Eivor clasped his hand around Sigurd’s arm and traced his thumb along the knotted shape of an old battle scar. “Will you carry the memory of this night to distant lands with you?” he whispered, his voice hoarse like a raven’s croak.

“I will,” Sigurd nodded. He pressed his lips against the inked bird on Eivor’s temple and tasted the salt of his skin as he left his brother’s thighs slick with his seed. “Wherever the swan-roads take me, you’ll be in my heart, Little Raven.”


End file.
